He strode quickly toward the door; but before he reached it, Liza threw it back.
“Miss Louise,” she cried, “the police!”
With hasty strides the old man rushed to the door and thrust it to.
“Oh!” he gasped, and then after a pause, there was one low, hoarse appeal to heaven for aid, “My God!”
The adjuration spoke volumes, and for a few moments the old man stood there as if in a catalyptic state. Then a change came over him, his pale face flushed, the veins in his forehead stood out and throbbed, and he dashed to his son.
“Quick, Harry! France!”
As he spoke, Harry broke from him, and dashed to the window, threw it open, and was about to spring out, but he drew back. There was no fancy this time; two policemen could be dimly-seen below.
“Too late, father,” he said calmly.
“No, my boy! this way, hush!”
He snatched open the door, and a quick-looking, well-knit man stood framed in the entry.